


All About the Hunt

by twowritehands



Series: Helluva Woman [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a Shojo hunt with Donna, Dean doesn't leave town straight away....</p><p> </p><p>*all parts of this series stand alone*</p>
            </blockquote>





	All About the Hunt

Okay, so Dean’s head is pounding from the hangover but that's nothing because his chest fucking hurts. Like he’s breaking in half.

If he doesn't know any better, Dean can swear that last night's drunken Shojo hunt had ended with that Shinto priest blessed samurai sword lodged in his heart. It feels like it.

Pounding migraine be damned, this thing in his chest is worse.

His morning--the way he woke with Donna in his arms after drunken sex on Jody’s couch--it floods him as he drives away. Her hair in his face. The smell of her. Her body heat a hot line down one side of him. Her chest vibrating against his as she groaned and moaned through the first stabbings of her hangover. The way she slumped back into him, snuggling closer with a sigh of contentment as if she too had woken in the best ever place in the whole universe, despite the pain and discomfort of noise and light, despite the torture of migraines and nausea…. As if she too regretted all choices from last night _except_ for being together….

Dean had a smile all morning, a spring in his step, and an honest-to-god goodwill to all men. Now, though, the light is fading. He’s facing the road away from her. The bunker is literally states away. It could be _weeks_ before he sees her again.

Not cool.

He keeps his burning eyes from watering, but the pain in his chest just gets worse. The best night of his life, the best hangover of his life--it can't be fucking over, on hold until the next time happenstance throws them together.

When will that be?

He can't wait that long.

So, despite Dean’s promise to the sheriffs that he is okay to drive, he convinces Sam it is best not to drive too far still so hungover. It is surprisingly easy to make his case, and Dean is so relieved to have Sam’s support in staying in town for a few more hours that he doesn't even worry about why Sam is being so agreeable.

They hit the nearest motel in town to get some much needed rest. They tell each other in full agreement that Shojo hunts require a longer than usual recoup period, due to the hunt requiring them to get so sloppy drunk, and besides they don’t have anywhere particular to be, right?

Right.

“I don’t think Jody appreciated me ‘n Donna gettin’ down on her good couch like that,” Dean jokes as they settle in the motel room because a) he can’t stop thinking about waking up with Donna so close he could count the clean little spaces between her perfectly formed eyelashes and b) Jody had seemed oddly eager to separate them this morning--but maybe he was just imagining so. Surely Jody knew Dean would never dream of mistreating Donna? “I mean, we could have at least put down a towel.”

Sam snorts from the blanket cave he had made in his motel bed to block out the morning light streaming through the gaudy, thin curtains. He doesn’t offer anything further, and Dean is forced to drop the topic. Dean kicks off his shoes, finds a new flannel shirt to wear, and inspects the sheets of his own motel bed before climbing in. It is barely eight o’clock in the morning, so he sets an alarm for twelve and shuts his eyes.

Oh, god, if only they could have stayed together on that big cozy couch all morning, her body pressing him into the stuffing...

Donna swims like a mermaid through his sluggish brain. It's not even like its the sex that he's obsessively replaying. Though it had been intense and a new experience on many levels, it couldn't hold a candle to waking up with her.

 _Why_ had he never kept her in his arms through the night before? It felt so… right.More than right it felt--Dean thought of the concept most people call _home_ but he never named it; he would never give that particular monster in his heart such a powerful name.

He thinks of how he used to wake up with Lisa. But it isn't the same. Not really. He woke up clinging to Lisa because he had nothing else. He woke up taking from her because he _needed,_ because he only _ever_ “needed”, because he was never giving. He’d had nothing to give in the days following the apocalypse.

Lisa, bless her, deserved so much more than that and he'd known it even as he held her, the guilt only breaking his broken heart more.

Holding Donna, though… that is different. He can't even begin to catalog the ways but dammit if the biggest and best difference isn’t that this time…. This time his needs are few and simple and he has given so much and yet _still_ has so much _more_ to give. He smiles in his sleep.

_Oh, mama, I only just got started spoiling you._

The alarm wakes him.

Motel sheets and motel ceiling and motel smell promptly replace Donna in his senses and the disappointment is palpable. In a sour mood just from that, he sits up.

To his surprise, Sam is awake, at the table with an open laptop. “Hey,” he says, without looking away from the screen. “I got you a sausage biscuit. It’s over there.”

“How long you been up?” Dean asks. He had hoped to be the first up so that he could have time to formulate an excuse, any excuse, to stick in the area.

“About forty minutes,” Sam responds as he works, “You were mumbling in your sleep.”

Dean buries his face in the pillow, and grunts. Sam only ever brings up this trait of his if he manages any coherent syllables during the night.

When they were kids, John would occasionally say their names in the middle of the night, or sharp yeses or firm nos, or would out of nowhere ask ‘what?’ so clearly they thought he was awake and upset they were up past bedtime whispering.

According to Sam, Dean has developed the same habit, only he is likely to say much more elaborate things.

“Anything interesting?” Dean asks. Had to be interesting or Sam wouldn't have mentioned it.

“You tell me,” Sam smirks, “Sounded like you were having a sex dream about Mom.”

Dean pulls a face and laughs. “Gross. But no.” Dean thinks about it and no specific fragments of whatever he dreamed returns--because it was all fucking _real life_ , and his chest swells with pride. “Musta been dreamin’ about Mama Donna. _Hoo_ , she is something else.”

“Mama Donna?” Sam asks, incredulously. “Really?”

Dean eats half the biscuit in one bite and shrugs. “Oh yeah. It’s a sex thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Ace people understand sex, Dean. We just don’t need it like you do.”

“So it’s _we_ now?” Dean bristles and scoffs, “Convenient.”

“Still demi-sexual, Dean. It’s technically called a gray ace.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what it’s called, Sam. I told you before. All this college freshman labeling of stuff to suit your needs, it’s got to end.”

“I’m not re-labeling myself to suit Cas,” Sam says tersely. “I am what I am.”

“Sam I am,” Dean chortles, finishing his biscuit. Memories of spying Sam and Cas sharing marshmellows in the backseat make a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. They were sweet kids, both of them. He crunches the greasy wrapper and lobs it into the trashcan. “Just treat Cas right, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “I will, Dean. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean is only half satisfied. He will, of course, need to have this same chat with Cas.

The serious moment fades back beneath the surface, and Dean is thankful for the breathing room. He heads for the bathroom, asking over his shoulder, “What are you looking at?”

“Searching for a case,” Sam explains, hitting the keyboard and the track pad. “I started locally, and I think I might have found something.”

Dean grins at his reflection in the mirror as he begins brushing his teeth. One huge upside to Sammy dating Cas, it means that just now not even Sam wants to leave the tri state area yet. “Yeah?”

“So get this, the papers just north of here have a bloody headline this morning. They call it an animal attack but it might be a werewolf; says the chest cavity was ripped to shreds. It's in her jurisdiction so we'll need Jody to get us the autopsy for any sign of a heart. Other than that, sounds like there’s a vamp nest in Larson.”

Dean grins and spits into the sink. “Damn!” He grouses though he is far from annoyed, “Just got done letting a Shojo put us through the meat grinder and now we have a wolf _and vamps_? Someone upstairs hates me.”

 _Or loves me and spoils me with opportunity_ , he thinks with an uncomfortable glance heavenward. This getting what he wants thing is so new he has a moment of doubt and distrust.

“Well the wolf is closer,” Sam is saying with authority, “And the full moon is tonight so I guess we’re doing that one first.”

“Hold on,” Dean emerges from the bathroom. “Let’s not micromanage. I mean we have a whole team, right? Three perfectly decent hunters in the area besides us.”

“Right,” Sam says.

“I say we make teams and split up. Take all the bastards down all at once.”

“Efficient,” Sam nods, “I like it.”

Dean’s chest goes out in pride. Within a matter of moments it’s agreed who is on who’s team. Dean takes his keys and tries not to giggle with glee as he hits the road for Larson county.

Dean finds Sheriff Hanscum in her office bent over a coffee. She’s so fucking cute with her ponytail and crisp, clean uniform his chest hurts again. He raps the door frame with a bright, “Hey, beautiful, you look like you had one hell of a party.”

She leaps up, “Dean!”

-X-

After getting a ride from Jody back here to her desk in Larson county, Donna has been seriously considering taking a half day. Her headache is letting up but dammit she isn't in the mood for this: a day of pretending.

It feels exactly like it had right after old Doug had packed his stuff and moved out. When all she could do was smile and keep tellin’ everyone she’s okay. _Keep going, hon, don't let ‘em see you hurtin_ ’ _over a man_.

Dean, though, has in no way hurt her which is what makes this morning irritating as hell. There is _no reason_ to feel like this. He hasn't abandoned her; this is the nature of his life and she knew it going in. This is how it has _always_ been between them: good sex and tail lights--except for this morning.

First time in five years she woke up with strong arms around her and a good man’s heart thudding peacefully under her ear.

Donna groans and hunches over her coffee, idly wondering if it would be weird to call him. They were friends right? They had shared a massive hangover if nothing else… maybe she could call under the pretense of seeing how he's doing? As _friends_.

She is drawn from her thoughts by a figure looming in her door, and a rap of knuckles on wood. “Hey beautiful, you look like you had one hell of a party.”

Her heart leaps into her throat and her stomach flips and she’s out of her chair and across the room with her arms around him before she can think better of it.

Hugging a happy and laughing Dean is like hugging a bear that just found his honey. He squeezes her and lifts her off her feet, making these yummy noises with that perfect deep timber in his voice vibrating out of his chest plate and straight into her bones. He smells like motel soap.

“What are you doing here?” She asks when her feet are back on the ground.

“Vamp nest,” He answers, “could use your help. Sammy’s off after a werewolf with Cas.”

Donna’s eyebrows go up, “Vamps and a werewolf the day after a shojo? How the heck do you boys find this stuff so fast?”

“I bet you thought you had a day off from the supernatural beat,”  Dean grins. “So what do ya say? Feeling up to it? You can so no.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because I have these blurry memories of you chugging a whole bottle of peppermint schnaps last night.”

“That was _you_ ,” she countered with a bright smile.

“No I had like eight shots of tequila,” he laughs. “I know this because it's the only thing that gets me tipsy drunk anymore.”

“Really?” She asks in alarm.

His smile falters and he shrugs, the expression coming back somewhat forced, “Hey, babe, I'm a functioning alcoholic. Kinda goes with the gig after thirty years. They throw it in like a bonus.”

Saddened by this, she straightens his tie, “Well I'm not your mama--” here his eyes flash and she grins but continues, “so you're free to do what you want but _please_ be kinder to your liver, Dean. You aren't getting any younger and you have people who care about you…. My, uh, grandpa died of cirrhosis a while back. It hit us all pretty hard.”

His hands are gently under her elbows, and she can hardly bear to look up into those suddenly sincere eyes, “I’m sorry, Donna.”

She scoffs, trying to keep the mood light, “Hey you didn't put the bottle in his hand.”

“Honestly I have less and less need to drink these days,” he says.

“Good,” she grins but she knows if he really is an alcoholic anything he says on the matter is to be taken with a grain of salt. “Anyhoo, where’re these vamps?”

-X-

Dean takes his frustration with himself out on the people-eating sons of bitches. When all is hacked and piled and burning, he still wants to wring his own neck.

_Bragging about your drinking problems does NOT win points with the good girl, you asshole._

He stares into the flames, feeling a surreal sense of The End. Her expression keeps playing over and over in his head, the flash of alarm, the drop of disappointment, the saddened look in her eyes….

Well, it was a good run while it lasted, right? Donna will take the confidence she built with him and find herself a guy that can make her happy and give her what she deser--

He literally has to stop his thoughts there as he mentally flinches away from the image. His chest feels tight.

“You okay?” Donna asks appearing at his side.

Snapping himself out of it, he grunts and plasters on a bland smile.

-X-

The fire in the mass grave is hot and smells rank like bubbling flesh, scorched hair, and gasoline, but she’s used to it. She doesn't like the way Dean went from looking troubled to smiling with a flat look in his eyes.

Something is wrong, but she doesn't know what. She tries to study him without being obvious. He has kicked into gear, busying himself.

After pointlessly collecting and arranging the shovels to have them ready when the bodies are burned enough to fill in the grave, he packs away the gasoline and salt in the trunk and circles the pit, scanning the perimeter of the camp, then the sky above.

Donna decides that Dean must have been lost in a dark memory. God knows he has enough of ‘em. She’s pleased when he looks toward the stars and smiles at what he sees.

Looking up too, Donna drifts nearer to him. The sunset is obscured by the nearby trees, but they can see a large swath of the sky, where the first stars have come out.

Immediately she recognizes what she sees. “Oooh, look at Venus.”

“Which one?” Dean asks, pointing at the wrong one, “There?”

Donna comes to a stop next to him and points at the biggest star. Dean leans to sight down her arm, putting his unshaven face close to hers and Donna bites her lip. Her stomach flutters, and it is in her voice despite her best efforts when she says, “She’s bright tonight, huh?”

Dean grunts inquisitively, a quirk in the corner of his mouth. “She?”

“Well, yeah,” Donna says lowly, closing the inch between them by leaning against his steely side. “Venus is a goddess. Makes the planet a she too, dontya think?”

He chuckles as his arm drops around her shoulders. “Yeah...beautiful night.”

Donna closes her eyes against her own lameness and desperation as she asks, “Need a place to crash tonight?”

“That’d be great.”

-X-

Dean is more than a little curious to see Donna’s home. It’s going to fill in so many blank spots in his knowledge of her. He knows the sheriff and the hunter. Now he’ll get just plain Donna--like at the spa, only in her personal environment instead of vacation. The heart of her life.

“Nice place,” he says as they pull into the drive. It’s an old two story house with old carved mouldings around all the windows, and classy porch railings. Dean figures it’s as old as the little town that grew up around it, straight up to it’s tiny square lawn. A founder’s house or something given to people in public office.

“Nah,” she shrugs it off in the way of homeowners that Dean used to never understand until his year with Lisa. Now he hears in that answer things like leaky-roof, loud pipes, creaky floor boards, cold drafts. “It was haunted when I moved in.”

“No,” he says. “Didn’t you say you’ve been here five years?”

“Hmhm. You know I didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. So when I thought I saw something funny around, or heard something funny, I’d call it a trick of light or the wind. But then I became a hunter, and I burned her old bones and wouldn’t you know it, the weird stuff’s gone away! I’ve been living with an old lady all this time!”

Dean snorts. “At least she was a considerate roommate.”

He wonders briefly how Donna might have handled an angry spirit if she hadn’t become a vampire slayer. A second later, the what-if is completely erased from his mind when Donna passes him, a whiff of perfume, something new--he’s never known Donna to wear any. His belly flutters and his groin feels heavy.

“By all accounts she was a nice lady.” she says as they step into the house. Rich dark wood, high ceilings, warm sunlight. Clean table tops, a huge, comfy couch waiting in the parlor. A book lies on the table next to it. Dean takes in all the details with a large smile. She’s done some excellent supernatural house-cleaning. No one lives here now but a clever sheriff.

“Want a drink, hon?”

“Not thirsty,” he says, catching her wrist lightly in his fingers. She steps closer, hand falling to his chest, raking her fingernails slowly down his torso. Her eyes are heated and provoking, like that night on the car; she wants him to pounce. And after a night like last night followed by a day like today, Dean is _so ready_ to show her what he can do.

"Donna," Dean rasps, taking a gentle fist full of her hair at the nape of her neck and tilting her head back just a little. He trails his lips down her throat. "Ungh, need you bad."

She giggles, and bucks into him, taking his ass in both hands and squeezing, "I'm right here for the takin' hon."

God, Dean feels ready to tear out of his skin and into hers, he craves her closeness so badly. He misses her so much which is wildly ridiculous because she’s been with him all day. Like her nail marks from last night at Jody’s, red tender lines along his collar bones.

The sheer relief to have her in his arms and under his lips again brings out all the stops. He feels something inside give away beneath a landslide of feeling he can't even fully comprehend. What he does know is he wants to give her everything, so he does.

He pours his devotion into her in deep kisses. Wasting no time they forget about taking the stairs, shed their jackets and shoes, then shirts and pants. He thinks to grab the condom out of his wallet before kicking his jeans out of his way, and holds the packet in his teeth as he helps pull away her layers. She strips completely.

Dean finds cotton panties with pink cupcakes on them instead of satin. He hums as if the treats were served warm out of the oven, but Donna kicks the cotton away.

Dean smiles. So the satin isn’t everyday wear. This isn’t as disappointing as he’d have bet. All it means is she puts it on for him. Which is somehow even better. He touches her wetness, massaging her sweet little clit with the pads of his fingers as she blindly rolls and snaps on the condom.

“What’dya want?” Dean asks her lowly.

To his surprise she laughs and nips at his bottom lip, “I don't want you on a leash tonight,” she murmurs, “Go bonkers on me, hon. I can keep up.”

He laughs, adoring the word ‘bonkers’ from a grown, naked woman’s lips, losing all the blood in his head, imagination going in a hundred different directions, and feeling his heart swell against his own lungs all at the same time.

“Oh, mama, you gotta be careful what you wish for.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she teases.

Provoked, the animal in Dean rears out of its box but he reigns it, fingers shaking as he laughs and drops his forehead to her shoulder. His head feels swimmy and he honestly doesn't even know what he’s going to do.

-X-

Donna needs sex right now--that blissed out, no thoughts, feel good, feel alive, feel dead, nothing matters, no future feeling.

She’s utterly surprised when she unleashes him and he--pauses, laughs, and reigns himself in with a tremor in his body. What the what? Her pulse spikes with anticipation and curiosity. What could he possibly do to her? She honestly isn't afraid of him and saying as much, she expects something in him to flip and for the savage man to come out and ravish her.

That’s the idea anyway.

Imagine her bewilderment when Dean lifts his head from her shoulder and she sees an expression that sends an electric jolt to her core. His face has settled into this mask of calm and determination, and his eyes have gone fiery but hooded…. And he doesn't go savage or hard and fast--he _goes slow._

Now it's her turn to shake in her proverbial boots because she recognizes a master settling in for a long night. His voice is lower and rougher than ever, “Oh, baby, it's all you tonight,” he whispers, his lips trailing over her as he sinks slowly down to his knees kissing a line down her chest and puffy belly. “I'm gonna take you apart piece by piece.”

She gulps. On his knees in her living room floor, he hikes one of her wide thighs over a shoulder and locks his mouth over her, delving his tongue into her wet folds and licking her clit. All she can do is sag against the wall, on her toes of one foot, fingers in his hair, and half her weight on his one shoulder, as she moves against his mouth.

Before she knows it she’s spasming on his tongue and she doesn't even get her breath back when his mouth smacks off her and he plants a sharp bite on the sensitive crease where her leg meets her body.

She yelps and he stands, leaving her suddenly on her own legs, standing naked against a wall. He’s grinning and his dark eyes glitter, “biting against the rules?” He rumbles.

It hurt but only for a second, and now the place throbs with her thoroughly abused clit in time to her pulse, adding a layer of sensation to balance the pleasure. She grins back, “No but you can't bite me if you can't catch me.”

And with a shriek she turns and sprints away, Dean lurching after her with predatory intent. She shrieks again as she feels him hot on her heels, adrenaline soaring through her veins as she dashes utterly naked  through the house, taking full advantage of his lack of knowledge in the floor plan.

-X-

Dean _likes_ naked chase games; he always wins them. And, okay, that's more the nature of naked chase games than any comment of skill on his part, but dammit if it doesn't feel like victory and survival-of-the fittest when he gets his arms around her anyway.

He’s a fucking king.

She’s laughing with him, and shrieks like a banshee when he catches her in the den in front of an empty fireplace. A moment of struggle takes her bare feet totally off the ground and lets him show off his strength. Pinning her to another wall, their laughing lips inches apart, he presses his sheathed erection hard against her, “and the coyote gets the roadrunner,” he says.

“If the coyote chased that bird to fuck it, then it's a good thing they never made that episode for Sunday morning cartoons.” she replies breathlessly.

Dean, already laughing, laughs more and kisses her. Like waking up with her, kissing is one of those things that hasn't happened a whole lot. He aims to show her what they've been missing.

Lips and tongue brushing here and there, Dean traces light fingers up and down her sides, her arms, her spine. He takes his time when their mouths are locked together, aware that the anticipation is what's killing her. When he feels her tremble or erupt with goosebumps, he notes the place on his mental map of her body, revisits it with his lips.

Donna is panting for breath and he isn't even inside of her yet. Perfect. She's the most beautiful creature when she's worked up--be it a fight scene, a bottle of liquor, or sex--he can't get enough of her dimpled smile and that rosy complexion.

Her chest is heaving. Her nipples are hard. Dean’s lips linger there, and he enjoys himself a little as her fingers comb his hair. Once or twice, she guides him with gentle pushes when she wants his mouth lower or pulls when she wants him higher. Dean doesn't mind the silent directions. It actually makes his blood spike every time, and he reminds himself to go there slowly. She moans every time.

His cock is _throbbing_ but he ignores that--when he can. Donna likes to touch it but when she does, he has to stop everything. He takes her hands and bites her fingers, kisses her palms, and rests them on his shoulders, pulls her against him in an intimate dance frame.

“I'm on fire,” she gasps, arching into him. He can feel her wetness against him, the heat, and the way her thighs are twitching.

She brings up a knee, goes onto her toes and he enters her in a fast deep push with no further ado.

She gasps again and clings to him around the shoulders, locking both legs around his waist and gulping "Yah, yah, oh!"

Balancing her against the wall he thrusts up into her with fervor, bouncing her on his cock. He can feel her gasping hot breaths on his neck. He can feel the nip of her teeth and the sting of her nails digging into wherever she grabs him as she holds on through his pounding.

He has made her come twice in one night. His fevered animal brain hopes to beat that. It's not his own orgasm he’s after it's her second, and then her _third_. He craves her orgasms like the blood thirsty monster he is, and doesn't want his own until he’s had that third in a row from her.

If he can kill gods, he can get her there.

-X-

 _There_ he is, the savage man. Holy moly.

With time to recover after her first orgasm, the second takes no time at all to shape out of the thrills of sensation he brings her with this intense reaming against a wall. He is shaking the studs; a canvas picture clatters to the floor. Her body is a firestorm of pleasure, a hot mess, puddy in Dean’s hands. Good gravy who taught him this? Who taught him how to draw things out so long it is _torture_?

Not that she is complaining.

She _wishes_ she had this kind of patience. She’s always loved his lips but her plans to simply make out with him always quickly develop into full on sex. Then she unleashes him and that's what he does. He shows her what a man with those lips and patience can do.

When the second finish hits her, it’s a _deep_ flutter of spasms inside so intense it feels like her spine is sparking. Her internal organs maybe fold inside out.

The moment she breaks, Dean shouts and she feels him go, bursting open inside her. He pauses to adjust their position, sliding her down the wall as he sinks to his knees and then pulling her forward. She finds herself in his lap.

Balanced on his thighs, legs around him, his lips against her neck, his arms all the way around her, she sinks deep on his cock and rocks against him gently but they are both spent and the shoots of sensation are almost too much.

-X-

It hadn't been Dean’s plan to come yet--not until he beat their record and got her to three big O’s--but a man can’t be all powerful. And as far as failures go this isn't really something Dean can ever be upset about.

When he sinks down to sit on the floor and she rocks into his lap, letting him soften inside her, Dean is still floating somewhere in funky town.

He dare not let her go. If he does, he might lose her. Just an errant thought that makes all the sense in the world just now. He’s got to keep her.

He breathes in the smell of her sweaty neck--a pleasing blend of shampoo, that new perfume, sweat, and Donna. He lets that scent fill him up along with the sensation of her fingers swirling in his hair.

 _Do something, dude_ , a voice inside urges. _Let her know how you need her more than once every blue moon. Say it. Say something!_

As a lead up, he kisses her here and there. She kisses back, so interested in his lips he can't speak without stopping her and frankly, Dean would rather kiss her for the rest of the night than say the wrong thing again and drive her away.

-X-

His bent legs begin to ache, so he reclines with some stiff moans. The floor is hard and cold. But Donna lays on top, breasts and hips soft and warm, and Dean sighs.

"Hoo, m gettin old,” he says instead of any of the things that first came to mind.

She giggles. “Gettin’ more handsome everyday,” she assures. He thinks she may actually mean that when she props up on an elbow and caresses his face, looking with soft eyes and a smile.

Hers are somehow the smoothest, warmest fingers to have ever touched Dean. He shivers, and pretends it’s the chill of the wood floors. “Next time we do it on a bear skin.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Nah. My uncle Wally’s got one, and he shares too many stories of how he uses it.”

Dean laughs and she touches his face one more time before getting up and letting him get out of the floor too. They wander back through the house looking for discarded clothing. Most of the articles are in the entryway, and though her front door’s glass is opaque, Dean feels weird passing it buck naked. He quickens his step and dresses in the corner.

All Donna does is step into her panties and her white undershirt before offering him something to eat. “Got some microwave dinners that are actually pretty good.”

“I can eat anything after that workout,” Dean says. He closes the fly on his jeans and decides he will go shirtless because he likes the way her eyes climb over the contours of his body.

When her back is turned, he checks out the reflection in the door glass--its fuzzy so it's flattering. He grins and can't help but strut after her into the kitchen.

Hands washed, food arranged in front of the TV, they watch whatever is on her DVR. The food isn’t a cheeseburger but it's healthy and it's edible. The shows are a blend of typical sitcoms and crime dramas that Dean has been casually familiar with for years. He is more interested in her interest in them.

“I love him,” she says when a certain handsome doctor walks on screen in cowboy boots. “He’s my guilty pleasure.”

“Mine too,” Dean shares. “Those cowboy boots, hoo. Sexy.”

Donna slurps a noodle and covers her mouth as if it burned her lips. A second later, judging by the blush and giggle that follows, he realizes it's surprise. “You forgot didn't you?”

“No,” she insists. Then, shrugging, “Just imagined having the two of ya with me in bed. Talk about sexy.”

Dean drops his fork and can't stop smiling. He knows that was a spit take from his oh so casual bisexual comment. But God love her for thinking of _that_ to cover it up. It’s definitely a fantasy he will explore later.

-X-

A moment passes with the barest of lulls; an opportunity to discuss the topic in greater detail. Donna doesn't take it. What's to discuss? It's not like they are exclusive or anything. Sam and Cas are going to test it and prove that a stationed hunter can't date a traveling one, not when differing sexualities put added strain to the distance.

That's what they are waiting on: proof one way or the other. Until then this thing is just a thing. Fun. Casual. No big deal.

But the idea of having a three way with Dean and some other gorgeous guy lingers. It would be interesting--but never going to happen. Not really. Donna thinks of three ways as an unreachable fantasy.

 _Like sex outside on the hood of the car?_ her wicked side asks. Nice girl Donna used to daydream about having sex outside a bedroom, of tying a man up and making him beg. Now she's done all that and more. What's to stop her from making more dreams come true? Can she make _two_ men beg? Does she _want_ to? If she achieves that fantasy, then what would become her new one? Something weirder, dirtier. Did she want to go down that path?

Dean laughs at the TV and Donna comes back to earth. The grounded feeling of reality is such a comfort that she knows the daydream will never be anything but a fantasy. She’s okay with that.

Just now, still undressed and still jelly from the playful sex in her den, she likes this Donna.

They clear the cardboard trays and Donna takes them to the trash. When she is back, Dean has stretched out on the couch, and it is what it is; a chance to pick up where they left off this morning.

She lays with her back against him so she can see the tv, and his strong arm holds her in place against him. They tangle their feet. Donna is so comfortable her racing heart settles, and her eyes begin to droop.

A moment later, though, and she’s wide awake like a gunshot sounds in her head. Because she catches herself thinking something, and while it is a pleasant something, it makes the part of her that got hurt once and can’t take risks start to scream. How much about Dean does she _really_ know, anyway?

After X years she had thought she could say very well. Yet knowing someone very well means you know when they make a joke and when they say something true.

And what he said back in her office-- the words are popping out of her mouth before she can stop them.

“So--functioning alcoholic, huh?”

-X-

_Fuck._

Dean closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath (the scent of her hair right in front of his nose), bracing himself against the tidal wave of shattered dream shards ripping him apart. _She’s too smart and respects herself too much to pretend you didn't say that. Here it comes._

He nods, because he doesn't even consider lying. Not to Donna. He doesn't say anything in his defense. He doesn't say anything at all... Until he’s suddenly saying everything, “You know drinking is what messed up the only good thing I ever had going with a woman. Her name was Lisa. She had a son, Ben… we almost made it work like a real family.”

Donna looks over her shoulder at him, “Lisa? No, wait a minute, Cas told me you lost Lisa because demons went after her and Ben, so you had to cut yourself loose for their own good.”

Dean laughs, feeling bitter and not even remotely caring of the fact that Cas can't keep his mouth shut, “I lost her before that, Donna. I never really had her. She had me, as a kind of project, a role-model-fixer-upper for her son. If I'd have done better… talked more and drank less…. She would have been willing to work for us more. The bottom line is I wasn't worth the real trouble of it all. What decent mother is going to keep her son in danger for a man who shuts them out and has a lousy temper and is gone on hunts for weeks on end and who’s more likely to have whiskey for breakfast than eggs?”

“This was a long time ago, that doesn't sound like the Dean I know.”

Dean hums, appreciating that and knowing that it's true; he _has_ changed since Sam fell into the deepest pit of hell all those years ago. He’s gone down to black eyes and back, then straight through the heart of true Darkness.

For a moment, just a moment, they lay there. Donna is in his arms and _listening_ to his fucked up history and not running and screaming. For a moment the shattered dreams are whole again and Dean is dazzled by the miracle.

Then Donna asks, “How many drinks do you have a day?”

_Fuck._

“At least one. Bunker’s got a lot of well aged stuff.”

“Have it with food, do ya?”

“Hell yes. Usually grilled cheese.” He can't help but chuckle as if this topic isn't his downfall. As if it is no big deal, because he senses that it is the biggest deal.

Donna giggles at this and for some reason the sound makes him feel not so alone. She bumps back against him and pats the arm he has over her ribs, “Hung over more than not?”

“Been awhile since those good old days,” Dean admits.

“Ever drink more than you mean to?”

“Well,” _fuck here it is,_ “Sometimes I’m at the bottom of the third glass before I realize I even poured a second,” he confesses this for the very first time out loud.

Both Sam and Cas have, individually, showed concern over his drinking habits, but Dean had always stubbornly insisted that he knew exactly how many he had that day.

His confession shames him into silence and he wonders what the hell happened to the Dean he used to know, the cocky adorable twenty something year old kid that drank in moderation and never mistreated a woman and never let his dad or the memory of his mother, down.

Yeah, sure it's been a decade and he’s been through hell both literally and figuratively more times than he cares to count--

But he used to _like_ being Dean Winchester, and he misses those days.

Dean feels like crying.

-X-

Her focus is on Dean, though she can't see him because of how they are positioned on the couch. But she can feel the shame in his tense frame.

For an awkward moment Donna doesn't know what to say. To be honest she’s disappointed as hell. And that surprises her.

It’s like she never thought Dean would ever let her down. But Dean’s only ever been a man and briefly a demon. Never a Saint.

“Dean,” she breathes and turns over on the couch to face him. It hurts in her chest when she sees his eyes have unshed tears in them. She puts on her firm but reassuring face. Her nice cop face. “There’s all kinds of help available. And you got me to talk to, if ya _ever_ need it. I've coached a couple of the Still Water drunks into sobriety so I’m kinda unofficially qualified. Okay?”

His smile is lopsided, and his teary eyes lock on hers, shining and full of something she can't name. “Thanks, Don.”

With a big breath in, she suddenly pulls out of his arms and leaves the couch. She is kinda breaking one of her cardinal rules and that is to never get involved with an addict, and, hurt in the past or not, no version of Donna can look beyond something like this.

Truth be told, she feels like crying, too.

-X-

Dean is fully dressed when he finds Donna sorting through a pile of laundry in an alcove off the bathroom. She smiles her usual bright way and he wonders if he has been misinterpreting that light in her eyes or if she is just good at smiling like nothing is wrong. He doesn't know which one he prefers.

“Hey. Thanks, uh...for listening in there. I've never,” he gulps. Wow this is not easy to talk about. He doesn't look at her. “Never told anyone that stuff. Ever. So…”

“Any time, hon. Really. I'm a _great_ listener. Always been my best quality.”

“I can think of about five other good qualities right off the top of my head. You’re a good egg, Donna. The best.”

Selecting a wrinkled pair of pajamas from the pile, she grins at him as she steps into the pants. “You're pretty good, too. I think you're too hard on yourself most the time.”

“You know what? I think I can do better. With somebody like you to talk to. Sammy...I try, and he doesn't do anything wrong, I just can't….you know? I raised the guy, practically. It feels wrong to burden him with my problems.”

“Sam--”

“Yeah. He's not a kid anymore, I know….I dunno, I just can't make myself tear down those last few remnants of who I used to be in his eyes, you know? I was Dean. I was his big brother. I was so cool. If I take this problem to him then...that Dean really is dead.”

Donna hugs him tightly. “That's why you can talk to me. You're gonna pull through this. Ya always have. You can be good old Dean again. Just have patience with yourself.”

“Thanks... I got a hold of Sam a minute ago. He and the mystery gang have wrapped up the werewolf case and he's on the road here to get me--whoa, that's awesome,” he adds when Donna lowers part of her laundry room wall to reveal a weapons safe, which she opens with a fluid turn-spin-twist of the combination lock. Dean spies a decent collection of knives and guns to which she adds her service pistol.

“I know right? It started a pantry but if I'm huntin’ I gotta do it right. So I moved my gun safe in here and Jodes ‘n Cas have been helping me set up a basic arsenal.”

“You are one hell of a woman,” Dean says. They spend the next hour discussing what she has and what she needs and what she wants. He is happy to offer some good strong advice on this matter, and feels monumentally better about himself by the time the Impala rumbles up the driveway.

“Gemme the trunk key, dude. Made a couple of sells.”

“What?”

“Donna needs a few things and since we’re due to hit the supply places, I went ahead and sold her our spares and the rarer commodities that aren't too hard for vets like us to replace.”

“Wow. She paid you? Cash money?”

“I don't know what you're implying, Samuel, but yes she did. She was happy to. And man, is it lucrative. I might have just figured out my retirement plan.”

“Okay. What all did you hauk?”

Dean gathers the arm load of spelled weapons and ammo. “Nothing we can't go without for a few days. Relax.”

Sam frowns and shrugs. “Cool.”

Donna collects on her porch and hands over the money. Their fingers brush and she bites her lip. “I'll see ya around, Dean. Don't forget to stay in touch.”

He winks, descends the steps, and chuckles at the look on Sam’s face.

“You two are so weird.”

“What?”

“It's just all about the hunt with you two, isn't it? For real. Monsters, sex, and arms deals.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah. She's awesome.”

Sam laughs in a way that tells Dean that he suspects that there is way more going on, but has tact not to push it. Dean diverts the subject away from himself by asking about Cas, and as Sam attempts to explain the nature of a romantic yet sexless relationship, Dean promises himself that he will do what it takes to be the guy Sam and Donna and Cas seem to think he is.


End file.
